


She says he was an handsome man and came from the sea

by GwenChan



Series: Chronicles of a family [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, F/M, Historical Inaccuracy, Innuendo, Nyotalia, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 07:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22352284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwenChan/pseuds/GwenChan
Summary: It's 1943, sometime after the Cassibile armistice. Americans have arrived to Sicily coast. Fierce local girl Chiara Vargas finds her path intertwining with a bright Private Alfred F. Jones.
Relationships: America/Female South Italy (Hetalia)
Series: Chronicles of a family [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/459409
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	She says he was an handsome man and came from the sea

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [She says he was an handsome man and came from the sea（中文翻译）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22662856) by [dreamlouder0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlouder0/pseuds/dreamlouder0)
  * Inspired by [She says he was an handsome man and came from the sea](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6763294) by [GwenChan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwenChan/pseuds/GwenChan). 



Even years later, all the men in the village, especially the older ones, those who had long lost their teeth and the former youth from 1945, never got tired of telling anyone who wanted to listen the tale of the man from the sea and how he had conquered the most beautiful girl in the village after she had refused all of them, the best of the best.

  
  


The Vargas family had always been a big one. Oven the years they had woven a dense network of acquaintances and friendships, so much that they had cut a place of prominence in the community. 

Rumours had it they had links all the way to America, making them among the most prominent in the village; or that, without going so far, the youngest son left without a penny in his pocket and made his fortune in the north.  A family of patriots, the head of the family and his father had both been veterans of the great war.

And, like all large families, the Vargas also had their good old feuds and infighting. Being in a time of war didn't improve an already ramshackle situation in itself. 

Of the last generation, of four brothers and sisters, only the second child, Chiara, had remained at home. Both brothers had vanished into the woods, joining the partisans and only sporadically sent letters. Alice, the little girl, had made shame befall on all of them and on the whole town when she ran away with a German soldier. 

Many thought of her as already dead and she’d be an outcast if she ever came back.

Chiara, on her behalf, wasn't interested in underground affairs, nor had she any intention to leave the nest to pretend and play at little soldier. 

Freedom ... her brothers, elder and younger both, filled their mouths with beautiful words. No amount of passionate speech, however, had yet managed to seduce her. 

Chiara's thoughts were linked to the earth, solid and grounded.

What was of freedom, when nobody stopped anymore to cultivate oranges and olives in the fields. If no one pruned the orchards and the fishing boats stood untouched for days?

Wars ended, invaders passed. French yesterday, German today, American tomorrow. Chiara didn't care. The very soil that had nourished her, on which she had been raised, one day, suddenly, without warning or any outside help, would shake by itself.

Meanwhile, she relied on the cycle of seasons. 

In the end, the sun would continue to burn crops and stones, rivers would as always overflow when least expected, the sea would swallow their men. 

Now it was the Americans who had arrived from the sea. For Chiara, “the Americans” were a singular entity. With their tanned and hopeful faces, their open smiles and boyish manners, they were immediately recognizable. Whether they were named John or Stuart, or they came from California or Alaska, was a negligible detail. 

"Miss. Miss, get help!" one shouted after her as she carried in her arms a heavy-looking bundle of wood. 

This one had sand-coloured hair and a strange cowlick. His name was ... Al, Alfred, something like that. He spoke a slow and funny Italian, but it was at least understandable. Chiara shook her head. 

"The hell! Go back to your errands, I can manage it myself!"

For some reason, this Alfred seemed to have developed a fixation for her. He never missed an opportunity to approach her, using the strangest of excuses.

. 

"You Americans are always so prone to help people?" Chiara scoffed, taking longer strides and raising a cloud of dust all around her snappy calves. Alfred gave her a toothy-grin.

"Well, I don’t know about all the others. But I am, and I’m a good representative of the category." 

"Eh, the category! Instead, go and tell them all that, if you don’t speed up a little, we’ll end up freeing Italy on our own." 

She had come to the front door; from the end of the street, the young man shouted after her, cupping his hands to his lips. 

"Maybe. But the bosses decide. And we have to wait." 

They all looked like children to her, the Americans. In Sicily, boys Alfred's age were already men in their own right. These soldiers, however, seemed ridiculously young, still stinking of their mother's milk. 

She snorted, swinging her legs while sitting on a low wall. 

Long locks glued to her neck and forehead from the heat. 

"A package from your sister!" 

The former postman of the village - who Chiara knew now ran up and down the peninsula to help the Resistance - no longer in the prime of hisyears, but still energetic, stumbled along the slope, with a bundle under his arm. 

"I don't want it. Give it to someone else . What can I do with that foolish girl's gifts?" 

When the postman hesitated, still, she resigned to stretch out her hands in acceptance. 

"Or, give it here. I'll do something!" 

She ripped open the heavy, greasy wrapping paper. Inside it was a nice red silk skirt. Chiara caressed the expensive fabric in delight. Destroying such a fine item to recycle the silk would be a shame. Yet, shame paled in comparison to the irritation she felt for each new gift. 

As if one could buy her trust. 

What her sister had done was already unforgivable.

How much have you already compromised? She asked the wind.

It was almost funny. She could have boasted a great lady's wardrobe - while other girls begged for the precious silk from the parachutes - and instead, she was spitting on her blessings. 

Damn it, Chiara wasn't even sure if she would ever have a proper wedding dress. Her grandmother's, the one that in another life should have been hers, destined to be passed down from mother to older daughter, now lay in her mother's grave. 

Poor mama, dear good soul. She had died of a broken heart when Alice had announced her foolish decision. The cruel sister didn't even wait to be home after Sunday mass, screaming her wicked choices for the whole village to hear. 

Her mama had brought both hands to her chest, collapsed and never recovered.

  
  


Chiara had run. Her best Sunday shoes, those made of red leather, clashed against the street pebbles.

"Alice, Alice!" she had called

"Chiara, thank goodness. You understand me, don't you?" 

"Let's go home. The priest's wine hurt you. Nothing happened" she grabbed her by the arm. Her sister broke free. 

"Leave me. I love him! Leave me!" 

Chiara had slapped her right across Alice's cheek. A good old slap, like hundreds that had already come before, when Alice made tantrums. Alice's eyes sparkled with tears of anger.

"I hate you! You don't understand anything!" 

Then Alice had ran away, still wearing her good Sunday little dress, her otherwise cheerful face streaked with tears and snot.

Alice had flown away, still wearing her sunday dress, face streaked with tears and snot.

***

Some mornings, when the weather was nice, Chiara went down to the beach to put her clothes to dry in the sun, lay them out on the humid and dark sand. 

She looked out at the sea while waiting; the blue sea with its waves and its secrets, which could be as generous as terrible.

One day the Americans had arrived from the sea. Chiara had run to the priest, as the news quickly spread from mouth to mouth.

The Americans! The Americans had arrived!

Today Chiara carried on her head a basket of freshly washed clothes. Her brothers were always so dirty, the few times they risked sneaking back home. Hair encrusted with clay, leaves, cooties and lice - clothes so full of lice they would soon start moving on their own volition. 

Chiara would brush them for hours, scrubbing until the skin bled and somehow their brother remerged. 

  
  
  


Unknown hands took the weight off her shoulders. She turned angrily at the sudden and unsolicited help. From behind his sand-coloured tufts, Alfred smiled. 

"May I help you? " 

Chiara Vargas took a minute to study the boy more carefully. He wore a khaki uniform, with the sleeves rolled up around his tanned forearms. He too looked like he hadn't seen a piece of soap in weeks. His trousers were slightly cuffed over the dusty boots. 

Yet, Alfred's face beamed with health and enthusiasm, as if the war had somehow spared him. It was hope incarnated 

"Be careful!" she eventually let him take the basket. "Your clothes could use a good wash too."

“Soon. A good bath" the American mused. "These smell so good" he added, sinking his face into the wet piles of freshly washed clothes. 

"A good bath can be arranged" Chiara replied, a sort of tender undertone in her voice. 

"I don't want to bother."

"Don't be silly. Just don't bring your whole platoon with you!"

The beach was windy. The clothes would dry soon. Chiara fished a large bed-sheet from the basket, part of the family dowry. She opened it at her feet.

"Come here and help. Take that corner. Yes, that one!"

Thinking about it, this boy seemed more suitable for housework than war. Then, if he could handle a rifle with the same easiness he folded clothes, then there was no reason to worry.

The Americans!

Chiara wondered what he did back home. Did he have a family? Brothers? SIsters?  What would the future hold for him after the war , if Fate allowed him to return home? 

  
  


"Be careful. A storm is brewing" Chiara warned, realising he was stripping to take a swim, just in time before Alfred dove into the waves. Water slid down his muscled back, lingering on the shape of his muscles. One arm cracked the sea surface, creating a cascade of droplets capturing the morning light, before diving back.

***

Chiara spread her chestnut hair down on her chest, face immersed in a letter. Meanwhile, Alfred shivered in the cool afternoon air.

"You said hot bath. This isn't hot!" 

Chiara huffed. Damn if this soldier couldn't stand a bit of cold. Of course, the water was warm. She had personally boiled it in her small kitchen, checked it wouldn't burn, then poured in a large zinc tub in the backyard.

An expression so similar to a mother's tender exasperation flashed in her dark eyes. She took a rough towel, left the letter on the ground and vigorously rubbed Alfred with a towel. He was tall, taller than her. He bent him over and scuffled his hair. 

Now he did look acceptable. 

"Letter?" 

"This thing? Yes, it’s a letter. From my brothers." 

The paper under her fingertips was painfully rough, the writing barely legible. 

Words, words, empty words. She didn't have to worry. Everything was going well. Even if they had found themselves in the middle of the enemy fire, they wouldn't stop assuring all was fine. 

She crumpled the letter to her chest, in a sudden surge of tenderness, before saving it in her breast pocket. 

She prayed to God to watch over her siblings every night. 

  
  


“They always try to make me feel better. You know, I'm glad they know how to write. Useful. Also, read. I can read, of course, I can. And some fools say a woman shouldn't read. You know how to read to cook or wash clothes!" she scoffed.

She took her breath. Then, "Can you read?"

Alfred took his sweet time to answer, rubbing a wrinkled forehead with the back of his hand. It must have been hard to express his own thoughts in a foreign language. The scene almost made her laugh. 

"I go to university. Harvard. Very famous, very famous in my country. If I don't die, go back and finish my studies.". 

And, for the first time since the Americans had left their footprints on Sicily soil, Chiara managed to see something more beyond the façade of the uniform.

Maybe this man didn't even want to come here and fight for a foreign land. Maybe he had enlisted, like thousands of other boys destined to die, with ears full of exciting and false promises.

He must have been homesick. Later, only years later, Chiara would have discovered about Alfred's twin brother and the English uncle who had raised him after their parents' death.

  
  


She thought of her sister. She prayed to the Virgin Mary , may she always protect her.

***

The Americans were located on the edge of the village. Enthusiastic English chattering always filled their barracks. Chiara could hear it every time she walked by when going to the grave-yard.

What cruel irony, the cemetery was so close. 

Every now and then someone left for the front, someone else took over. 

Private Alfred F. Jones was among those meant to leave soon. Chiara caught herself praying he would know his grave only when his forehead would be full of wrinkles, surrounded by grandchildren and a lifetime of experience.

An irreverent kiss on the temple, on the hairline. 

"What are you doing?" she snapped.

If he had thought, he could put his hands on her only because she had been kind, then he was out of his mind.

"Just a kiss. Leave tomorrow." 

In the end, he was only a big boy scared to death, hiding behind a mask, looking for a little affection and courage. 

Did he have a girl waiting for him at home? Some nice chick ready to go to the altar?

"But only one !" 

Lips against lips, man's hands-on thin hips. The American was a good kisser.

"Sweet. It's sweet!" he murmured. Who knows, maybe he had thought that Chiara had in herself the salt of the sea and the hardness of the earth, not the sweetness of the sun and the oranges of Sicily. 

And Alfred drank from that sweetness, impregnating every pore with it as if trying to save some from the dark moments looming in the future.

***

They left! The Americans had left. Those cheerful soldiers had finally left the streets between white houses; left behind the occasional flirts, all the cheerful kids who used to run after them, greedy for the chocolate bars the soldiers always carried.

  
  


Long and paved with traps, ambushes and corpses, was the road to Rome.

If Alfred had fallen in battle, if he had returned to his university, if he had started a family or if his only night of love had been what she had given him, Chiara never knew. 

The son who grew in her, a child with sand-blond-hair and eyes blue like the sea , was the only memory he left.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I didn't mean to translate this in English in one-shot form, until the lovely Narder_leona came with the unimaginable and prompted me to actually reprised a fanfic I have written in 2011! Yes, I've been in the fandom for so long.
> 
> Being it that old, today I would have written several things differently, both in terms of characterization and pacing. However, I preferred to leave it as it was since I has a kind of rough sincerity I still hold dear to my heart.
> 
> In the original Italian version the style is meant to convey a sort of folks speaking, almost vernacular, without it being actually vernacular. Me and my beta tried our best to translate the same feeling into English.
> 
> Less important, but for names, Chiara is pronounced Keeharah and Alice is Ahleehceh.
> 
> In the original Italian version Alfred is supposed to speak in a mixture of English and broken Italian.


End file.
